


Mr. Lonely

by king_finn



Series: What A Wonderful World [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Buried Alive, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26823628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_finn/pseuds/king_finn
Summary: He frowns. Why would he be lying on wood? That makes no sense. He shifts again, trying to turn around, ready to stretch his hand out in search of a nightstand or something of the like that can at least give him some idea as to where he is.But his movement is stopped short when his shoulder hits something soft right above him, mere inches in front of his face. He reaches out, touching the cushions tentatively. He presses into the velvet and goose feathers, and feels something hard and unyielding underneath them. Almost like a plank of wood.He closes his eyes, trying not to hyperventilate, as an image is conjured in his mind. A terrible, horrible image.After a few weeks of being terribly ill with the flu, Jaskier wakes up six feet under.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: What A Wonderful World [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951405
Comments: 14
Kudos: 362
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Mr. Lonely

**Author's Note:**

> Day 4 of Whumptober! Today's prompt is: buried alive!
> 
> Title from Mr. Lonely by Bobby Vinton.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

He startles awake in the dark. Not an unusual occurrence, really – it’s not uncommon that he wakes up in the middle of the night; he’s always been a light sleeper. That had changed when he’d started travelling by Geralt’s side, his subconscious feeling safe enough around the Witcher to delve into the lands of dreams further than it previously dared to.

He lets out a soft, content sigh at the thought of Geralt. It’s nearly spring, now, and soon enough, Geralt will come down from the mountains, from Kaer Morhen, and he and Jaskier will start travelling together again. It’s a pleasant thought that makes something warm settle in his chest, though that has to take a backseat for now, when he feels his own breath wafting back into his face.

 _Strange._ He shifts a little, suddenly noticing that he’s not on his usually so soft mattress in his family’s estate. Sure, he’s lying on cushions, but there’s something underneath it that hurts his back. It almost feels like he’s lying on _wood_ , even.

He frowns. Why would he be lying on wood? That makes no sense. He shifts again, trying to turn around, ready to stretch his hand out in search of a nightstand or something of the like that can at least give him some idea as to where he is.

But his movement is stopped short when his shoulder hits something soft right above him, mere inches in front of his face. He reaches out, touching the cushions tentatively. He presses into the velvet and goose feathers, and feels something hard and unyielding underneath them. Almost like a plank of wood.

He closes his eyes, trying not to hyperventilate, as an image is conjured in his mind. A terrible, horrible image.

 _Don’t panic,_ he tells himself, as he lowers his hand, carefully moving them to the sides, only to be stopped after a few inches by more wood covered in cushions. He stretches out, the tips of his toes and the top of his head touching… once again, cushions and wood.

It’s then that he hyperventilates, when he realizes that he’s in a coffin.

He tightens his hands into fists, desperately trying not to scream out his panic. He’s got a limited supply of air left – who knows how long he’s even been in here before he woke up – he can’t use it on something as wasteful as screaming if no one can hear him.

But maybe they can. Maybe he’s not buried yet, maybe he’s still in the grand hall at the Lettenhove estate, where people say their goodbyes to him, or maybe he’s still in the funeral home, awaiting his own burial. Maybe it’s not too late yet.

He feels his fingers with his thumbs, and blesses all his lucky stars for the large, bejewelled rings his parents put on him before they put him in the coffin. They’re sharp enough that, when he pushes his fist against the cushions, he can hear the tell-tale _pop_ of a jewel breaking through the fabric. A swift, jaggy movement of his arm, and goose feathers are spilling all over him, hand reaching into the newly created hole to touch the wood of the coffin.

He balls his hand into a fist, pulling it back as far as it can go, before slamming it against the lid. A dull _thud_ resounds through the coffin, and it might as well be a death sentence. The sound tells him that there is something heavy lying on top of the lid – something like six feet of dirt, perhaps.

He’s going to die in here. He’s going to die a slow, horrible death. He’s going to suffocate in this coffin as air slowly runs out, each breath he takes now another step closer to his demise.

He closes his eyes. If he’s going to die like this, might as well try to figure out why all this happened in the first place.

He remembers this winter, remembers the freezing cold, remembers sitting in front of the hearth with a mug of tea and a nice book, remembers snowball fights with his younger cousins, always ending with him getting tackled into the snow by five kids and two toddlers, before finally managing to usher them inside in their soaking clothes, lest they catch something out in the cold.

Except he did – catch something in the cold, that is. He remembers feeling worse and worse each passing day, fever developing, his mother sitting by his side and dabbing at his sweaty forehead with a cold, wet cloth, a worried crease in her brow.

And then he remembers nothing.

He frowns into the darkness. That must’ve been it, then. His sickness must’ve become so bad that his parents thought he was dead, so they buried him. It wouldn’t be the first time this has happened – he’s heard the terrible stories of people unearthing bodies to make place for newly deceased, only to find scratch marks on the inside of the coffin lids.

He just never thought he’d become one of those people.

So now what? He can’t just lie here and do nothing and wait for the end. There must be some way to escape. He can’t push the lid open, since it’s probably nailed shut and there’s six feet of dirt lying on top of it. So, he’ll have to make his own path through.

He reaches up again, making the hole in the cushions above him bigger, spluttering a bit as he gets goose feathers in his mouth. When he’s sure it’s big enough, he puts his fists against the wood, bejewelled rings digging into his skin. He reaches down, before punching up against the lid with one hand. And he does it again, and again, and again, and again, trying to keep his breathing as even as possible, as to not waste any air.

When his right arm grows tired, he continues with his left. And so on and so forth.

It must be hours when he finally feels something crack under his fingers, though unfortunately, the sharp, throbbing pain in his hand tells him he may have actually broken a bone instead of the coffin lid. _Fuck._ It hurts like hell, but he doesn’t feel like he’s got much choice but to continue.

So he does, trying to do most of the work with his right hand instead of his left, only resorting to the left one when his right hand is screaming in agony, muscles quivering with exertion. Every punch is like someone’s poked a knife into his hand and is twisting it around, and he can’t hold back the whimper he lets out every time his left fist makes contact with the wood.

He tries not to cry as the hours pass by fruitlessly, he really does, but he can’t stop the salty tears from leaking out of his eyes and down his cheeks, as hope dwindles with each passing hour, minute, second, breath.

He’s going to die in here.

He can feel the oxygen running out. His heart is beating faster, breathing coming quicker and quicker as his body fails to pull in the air he needs time after time, head slowly spinning as his eyelids begin to droop. He doesn’t have long left. Not long at all.

And, when he finally resigns himself to his terrible fate, when he drops his hands and feels all hope leaving him, he hears a soft _thud_ above him.

He frowns. _Could it be?_ He’s got nothing to lose, except the last few minutes of his life, though he’ll surely spend those in misery anyways.

He takes a deep breath, gasping in whatever oxygen is left in the coffin, and _screams._ He doesn’t have the energy to form words or sentences, doesn’t bother with those – he just screams like his life depends on it. Because it _does._

He screams and screams, until he can barely breathe anymore, until his throat is raw and his head is spinning, and he feels the last few moments of his life slipping through his fingers, eyes falling shut. His breaths are shallow and fast. He coughs, choking on the empty air in the coffin, body trying everything in its might to keep him alive, to breathe in fresh air, but its attempts are fruitless.

He feels his eyes slipping closed one last time, descending into the darkness, as he hears a distant _thwack_ above him.

\---

He gasps in lungfuls of air, eyes slamming open before squeezing shut against the sudden onslaught of light. He distantly registers someone holding him and saying his name in his ear, telling him they’re here and he’s safe and _thank the gods I heard you scream, Jask –_ but his entire mind is filled with the utter _ecstasy_ of getting to breathe fresh air again, head spinning as he sucks in breath after breath.

Slowly, his mind comes back to him, and bit by bit, he pries his eyes open again. The sky is a pale blue above him, the first pollen of spring dancing through the air, though his field of vision is almost completely blocked by a head of white hair.

“Geralt,” he gasps, voice raw and ruined from screaming, and he barely manages to lift his arms to weakly return the crushing hug.

“Are you alright?” Geralt asks against his hair, and when Jaskier looks to the side, he notices the open lid of the coffin, purple, velvet pillows torn open, goose feathers spilling out, the inside of the wood covered in notches and scratches and blood, a single jewel sticking from it.

“Yes,” he whispers. But tears well in his eyes when he realizes what fate would have befallen him if he’d been in there a little longer, if he hadn’t heard Geralt walking towards his premature grave, if he hadn’t screamed for help. He sobs quietly, burying his face in Geralt’s shoulder, curling in on himself as the adrenaline and panic return, chasing away the numbness he’d been floating in for the past hours.

Geralt holds him more tightly, soothingly rubbing little circles into his back. “You’re safe, Jask. You’re safe, it’s alright, you’re going to be alright.”

And though his mind won’t let him believe that just yet, he nods, quietly grateful for every breath of fresh air the gods have granted him.

**Author's Note:**

> Tomorrow's prompt is: on the run! If you want to be notified when tomorrow's fic goes up, don't hesitate to subscribe to the What a Wonderful World Series!
> 
> Also I'm on tumblr, @king-finnigan


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